Roving Blade
by A Wee Bit Insane
Summary: Finna swashes her buckler, if ye get me meanin!
1. Lich and a Thief

Disclaimer: Oy donnae own, ye bloody self - righteous gits!;)

'Finna?'

'Aye?'

'It's not the BEST of your ideas, innit?'

The taller of two red - heads started to wonder. Considering she was about to enter a long abandoned house, and according to folks of Beregost, a hunted one at that... Imoen was right. The home looked harmless enough, even if a little shabby at the moment. Spraining one's ankle while walking up the rotting stairs seemed the only danger there... but, if one considered what the townsfolk were gossiping about... She stopped, two steps from the door to aforementioned building, and looked around. The town was long asleep, and even the guards were nowhere to be seen. The only other living creatures within eyeshot - accept her and Imoen - were whores, and Finna doubted they would be much help if whatever dwelled there would decide it wants their souls.

'Prolly not', she answered.

Imoen just stared at her.

'Sis', she managed to say after a moment, 'are you tryin' to tell me ya aren't sure about what you're doin?!'

Finna stepped closer and examined the stairs. The wood was rotten, it was sure as hell, but it would hold her. So she hoped. Even if not... it was not such a great high after all.  
'Well, I guess I'm not. Not quite.'

Imoen slapped her forehead in an obviously dramatic gesture. It did not turn out as planned, though: the sound of this slap was muffled by her pink glove and her pink hood.

'So, ya come to a house owned by a mad card and dice playing lich who is said to be a hundred years old, ya want to play with him, ignoring the fact that no one tried before because the locals have a thing called common sense, and ya are not SURE WHAT YER DOIN?!'

The little thief's voice echoed through the streets of Beregost, probably waking some people and surely some dogs, which expressed their irritation by barking.

'Will ya keep it down?', Finna hissed, approaching her sister, 'I've a bloody reputation to maintain!'

'Yeah, right. Just because ya got drunk and started to boast ya could win any game ya don't have to get yourself killed.'

'I won't get meself killed!'

'...and poor Imoen will have to drag your corpse all the way to the Temple, and we don't have any money...'

'I won't get meself killed!'

'So I will have to offer my services to ole Olmyr, and he won't accept, because he has five sirines around, which means plenty of flesh to...'

'I WON'T GET MESELF KILLED!'

A window of one of the neighbouring homes opened, and an elderly woman's head appeared inside. Finna barely dodged a flowerpot she tossed at her.

'What the hell did ya do that fer'?!', she shouted when the pot landed on the ground.

'We want to get some sleep, so why won't you two get out of here? Adventurers, hmph!'  
Finna bowed with courtesy, resisting the urge to obey the old hag and just run... or to drag her down here by the white mop she called 'hair' and beat her bloody. Swashbucklers were supposed to be brave and kind, right?

'Do not worry, good woman', she said, 'We'll get rid of this undead scum in no time.'

The window closed, and the said good woman obviously did not appericate Finna's courtesy enough.

'Now ya've done it', the swashbuckler complained, 'I have tae go, now.'

'I've done it? And who was yellin about getting killed, eh?'

'I was talkin' 'bout not gettin killed.'

'Sheesh. Big difference'

'And I wasnae yellin', Finna added.

'Ya were.'

'Wasnae.'

'Was to.'

'Wasnae.'

'Wasto.

'WASNAE!'

'Wastowastowastowastowasto!'

The window opened again.

'BLOODY BASTARD HELL!', the woman yelled, exceeding both Finna and Imoen in loudness, 'If you two won't SHUT UP, I will go and kill the lich myself! If I won't go, my Harold will! If he won't go, my first housband will rise from his grave and he will kill the lich! If he won't, Feldepost will! And the half of the bloody town! All of this because you chose this NIGHT to argue! I swear I like an undead around more than you two here.'

Finna sighed, unsheating her longsword and delivering a few effective blows into the air.

'Do not trouble yerself, good woman. Stick me sharp blade through this undead's corpse, I will!'

'Then do it! Or just SHUT UP!'

'Undead's corpse?' Imoen chuckled after the window shut for the third time, 'It was not very... skilfully said, ya know.'

'Yeah', Finna sighed, looking around once again.  
Some of the courtesans started to giggle. More of them assembled, as if the old hag's voice attracted more audience.

'Now I really have to get in there', she whispered, 'or me swashbuckling career is done fer...'

'Well, it can be over when ya go in, too', Imoen retorted.

'But I have a bloody chance with a lich, not with laughing townsfolk. A'rite, Im. Goin', I am. Remember what ya've to do?'

'Yeah.'

Finna nodded and stepped into the haunted house.

Damn, so dark there. Just this once, Finna regretted she was not born a pansy elf. Them tree - huggers might have been good for nothing, but seeing through the darkness was a gift she wanted to posess.  
_Aye, and I want it badly_, she thought after bumping into something hard, which under further examination turned out to be a wall. _So dark! So bloody dark!_ She walked further, shivering at every sound that the old floor made under her careful steps. Imoen was right. Oh yes, she was right_. Two weeks since leaving good old Candlekeep and now trying to take on a bloody LICH?_

'Too dark to see a thing?' asked a deep voice from the right.

Finna literally jumped in horror. Once on the earth again, she thanked the gods for her slight weight. Were she a pound heavier, the house would just collapse.

'No, not at all', she answered, doing her best to sound cheerful and failing miserably.  
The owner of the voice seemed amused.

'I will take the liberty to fire some torches, nevertheless.'

The young swashbuckler blinked as the room was suddenly flooded with light. Covering her eyes with her palm, she looked at her mysterious host.  
A lich it was, no bloody doubt. More elegant than a ghoul, for sure, but still not a pleasant sight to sore eyes: a hunchbacked, bald and pale figure dressed in shards of clothing that must have been thousands years old.  
_Bloody hell_, thought Finna, _couldnae he git 'imself some new clothes? He had the time fer it, that's a sure thing._

'I take it you are here for a game of cards?', the lich asked, still in the same extremely polite tone.

'Aye!', the girl replied, regaining her attitude, 'Cards, dice, ya name it, laddie!'

Now, when her eyes got used to the surrounding light, she was able to look around. While obviously not having a taste for clothes, the lich had a taste for furniture: the old ones were replaced with new, rich and highly adorned creations of ebony and ashwood. The carpets looked new as well, and seemed more comfortable than many a bed. The lich liked warm colours: mostly gold, brown and red. _Fits_, thought Finna. _Must be really cold when yer dead._

'My name is sir Gregory Fitzgerald', the lich announced, leading Finna to what she thought was the living room, 'I would be most grateful if you called me that, instead of referring to me as laddie.'

'Oi, a'rite', said the girl, sitting on a soft, comfortable chair by the green table, 'Finna be me name.'

The lich sat himself, facing her, and pulled a pack of cards from his sleeve. Then, he took out a cup and set of dice out of his pocket.  
'Delighted to meet you', he assured, putting a pair of dice and a cup next to the cards.

'Yea. So, what are the rules?'  
Surprisingly to herself, she found out that she was not afraid anymore. He did not kill me yet, rite? That counts. 'Beautiful in their simplicity. My riches against your soul.'

'Sounds a fair deal.'

'It is, young lady. What comes first? A roll of dice?'

'Aye, let it be yer way.'

The lich smiled and tossed the dice into his cup. He shook it well and rolled the two sets of dice on the table. Finna was about to jump, in her joy, as she saw two ones and one three before her eyes... till they turned into a nice set of sixes. _What the bloody hell is goin' on here_, she asked herself.  
Sir Gregory Fitzgerald smiled lightly and passed her the cup. The young swashbuckler bit her lip, thought of Tymora, thought of her soul, thought of the powerful undead sitting next to her.

'Is something wrong?', the lich inquired.

'Nay', she replied.

_Darn, a swashbuckler should bloody well know how to lie!  
Tymora, help me._

'Well, ya roll yer dice and take yer chances, aye?', she asked, desperately hoping to get some more time. There was something wrong going on there, she knew it! But what could that be?  
'Indeed', sir Gregory nodded, 'Now, please do what this vise proverb advices.'

'Oy, no need to hurry, is it?', asked the girl and grinned.  
A rather pathetic attempt of smiling, she thought. Oh well. One can't be perfect, rite?

'I have all the time in the world', the undead smirked, 'You... have a little less.'

'But... it's a rare occasion to talk with such an... educated person!'

The lich cocked his eyebrow. Finna continiued desperately:  
'So, what so you think of... Tymora?', she asked.

'Might I ask what brought this up?'

'Well, dice of course. You seem to be really favoured by fate.'

'We should see if you have the same... gift. Why do you hestitate?'

_Because ya'll take me soul if I'll roll the bloody dice_, she thought. _Blasted art of conversation! As if folks couldnae speak their minds like normal beings do!_  
'I told ya. It is a rare occasion...'

'... to talk with such an educated person as you think I am. Despite my age, I heard you before.'

_Educated. Liches cast spells. The numbers... they changed. Something is going on here, fer sure. He's like these con men that play cards, dice and three cups in taverns... wiser than them, aye, but so bloody self - assured! He knows he can't loose this game. He knows.  
Damn, what can a lich do that I can't?_ Her reason, rarely used, whispered: 'everything', but Finna ignored it, as she did many times before._ He can summon demons, decorate a room, kill an adventuring party without breaking a sweat, scare the hell outta me, cast time stop...  
TIME STOP!_  
The young swashbuckler stood up abruptly, her temper getting the better of her.

'Ya bloody cheatin' scoundrel!', she yelled, kicking the table so hard that it hit the floor, inches away from the lich'es feet.  
'Ya damned piece of undead dung!', Finna continiued, unsheating her longsword.

Gregory Fitzgerald remained calm and well - mannered.  
'May I ask what...'

'WHAT?! WHAT?!', the girl repeated, pressing the tip of her blade to the undead's neck, 'Ya cast time stop and turn ones and threes into sixes! Yer a bloody cheater... sir!'

Breathing heavily, the yong swashbuckler realised two things.  
First, her sword was of no use against a lich.  
Second, the lich still could cast spells.

'If you want to do it the hard way', the creature shrugged, 'be my guest.'

Finna turned on her heel and started to run, hearing the lich'es incantations.  
Bloody hell, this creature is going to cast some bloody symbol!, she realized, and ran even faster. Two steps from the door! Relieved, she shoved them open, jumped out, yelled at Imoen to run and.  
Fell on the hard ground, tripping over a twine and got caught in a fishing net, courtesy of Imoen, who set all these traps because Finna told her to.

'RUN!', the swashbuckler yelled, trying to cut her way out of the net.

'But this LICH was supposed to come out first, not you!', her sister complained.

'RUN, fer bollocks sake!'

Finna looked behind her. She could clearly see the pale lich in the moonlight... and the symbol conjured by him as well. The disc drifted in the air, slowly flying in her direction.  
An elf, long - haired, colorful and shiny, approached them with a smile. He obviously did not see any danger, as his eyes were focused on Imoen and Finna.  
'Greetings, fair ladies. I heard this household is the home of a certain gambling lich...'

'Ya damned...', Finna started, intending to tell him to get the blazes out of there while still fighting the fishing net... but it was of no use.  
Suddenly realizing the situation, the elf jumped between Finna and her undead foe. The symbol hit him right in the head, immobilizing him as intended.  
Finna cursed, Imoen shrieked. The shorter red head took out her dagger in a desperate attempt to protect her sister, she threw it at the lich, missed, the dagger darted in the floor, inches away from the undead, breaking the creature's concentration.

'Finnaaaaaaaa!', Imoen yelled, jumping backwards.  
The swashbuckler finally freed herself, managed to stand up and stepped towards the lich, sword in hand.

'You... will... not... harm... my... sister!', she managed to say, teeth clenching, legs shaking, blood racing as if it suddenly turned into an oil of speed.  
'We shall see', sir Gregory Fitzgerald replied, calm and polite as usual.

Well, take yer chances... again, thought Finna, facing the undead one.

This time it looks like I don't have any.  
She took another step, standing on the doormat. Feeling something cracking under her heel, she briefly wondered what could that be.  
Imoen closed her eyes.  
_I stepped in something.  
What a stupid idea for a last thought._

'Any last words, morta... aaaaaaaaaaaaah!'

The undead shouted in pain, waved his hands and crumbled into dust at her feet.

'Finna? Are we dead?', asked Imoen, eyes still closed. Death comming to take them sure was not a pleasant sight.

The swashbuckler blinked, eyes wandering from her sword to the ash on the floor. It took a few moments before she regained her sense enough to turn around, facing the stunned elf and her sister who was covering her face with her palms.

'I... don't think sae', Finna said slowly, 'The lich...'  
The thief opened one eye, than another.

'Finna?'

'I killed the lich', the girl announced.  
It sounded good.

'I have nae bloody idea how, but I did.'  
This sounded less effective, but there was only Imoen around, as the whores wisely retreated, and the elf could not hear them anyway.

'I... I gotta sit, ya know?', the swashbuckler said.

She sat on the doorstep, breathing heavily. Imoen looked around, blinking.  
'And you're sure we're not dead?', she asked.

'Ya think Nine Hells look like Beregost?'

'Well, this shopkeeper who lost everything claimed this city IS Nine Hells... but I guess that does not count. What the heck you did to him, anyway?'

'No idea. It was like... he rolled his dice, got a set of sixes, I figured he cast time stop and cheated me, freaked out, threw a few curses at him, he freaked out, started to chase me and threw some nasty symbols at my head... the rest ya know.'

'HE was supposed to run from YOU, Finna', Imoen remarked.

'Well, I thought I'll win and he'll try to get away without paying.'

'You're a buffle - head, sis.'

'Seems so. But I killed him.'

'But how?'

'No idea, as afore said.'

Imoen bit her lip, wondering.  
'Ya know, what, sis? Tell me everything ya did beginning from the moment ya got out of this net. Imoen will figure it out for ya'  
'So. I was scared like bloody hell, stood up, took me sword - nae fancy enchantments, as ya know - walked up to him, stepped into something and cracked it, then he was like...'

'WAIT! Where was that?'

'What?'

'The thing ya stepped in, dummy.'

'Doormat.'

Imoen crouched, picked up the doormat and started to examine the ground under it.  
'Something small? A box?'

'Could be.'

Imoen lifted a little, crashed item from the ground and started to look at it.  
'This?', she asked, showing her discovery to her sister.

'Aye. Seems so...'

The thief nodded, wandering again. Then, she shrieked, throwing the box on the ground.  
'Ewwww! A phylactery!'

'A what?!'

'I know that you don't care for magic, but don't be such a buffle - head! It's the place where liches keep their souls.'

'And that's... how I...'

'Yeah! No big heroic story, I'm afraid!'

Imoen laughed loudly, happily, and Finna joined her in a moment.  
'But what kind of lich would keep his soul under a doormat?', the taller red head asked a long while after.

'And what kind of a swashbuckler would crash a phylactery under her heel instead of sticking her pointy blade right through a lich'es undead corpse?', Imoen laughed again, quotting her sister.

'A beginner!', Finna said, 'and I need to git meself a better sword, I do.'

'And I need a Shadow Armour', the thief retorted, 'well, it's not like any of us will get what we need... we don't have much gold and all..'

Finna smirked.  
'And you call me a buffle - head? We just took on a lich. I bet he has THOUSANDS of gold pieces somewhere. If not, I've been to his house. Even if we sold his belongings, it would make a nice sum.'

'Heh, true true! And I expect a double share of the loot!'

'No. It will go in three parts. If not for this colorful fella here, we'd be both done fer, we would...'

'Right...', Imoen nodded, looking at the stunned elf, 'but ya'd share our gold with a pansy elf? Reevor would hit ya in the head!'

'If he jumped really high, that is.'

'Whatever. It's just... strange of ya to be so kind to elves, hah...'

'Elf or not, he helped us. A dwarf always pays his debts, so Reevor said.'

'Finna?'

'Aye?'

'You're not a dwarf. Ya may speak as if ya were one, but you're not.'

'But I'm a swashbuckler! I have a bloody reputation to...'

'... maintain, yeah. Whatever. This fella is more lucky than Khalid and Jaheira were, tehehe!'

'Them tree - huggers! Yuck. Don't mention them. I had a fair share of stress today.'

'Alrite. I wonder who is this guy, anyway... and how will he react on the news that he has a small fortune.'

As if one of the Gods wanted to indulge her curiosity, the spell broke, and the colorful elven fellow was able to move again.  
He looked around, obviously surprised with the fact that he is still alive.

'My fair ladies', he bowed, 'if not the surroundings, I would be sure that I died and arrived at Nine Hells... where two fiery - haired succubuses will torment me for eternity... a fate I would not mind.'

The elf smiled at them. It seemed that stun was contagious: Imoen looked like she was under this spell already, smiling dreamily.  
Finna looked at the guy's clothing. _Bloody hell, I understand blue, but pink? This bloody elf looks like a queer!_

'And who the blazes are ya?', she asked.

'Ah, forgive my manners. My name is Coran. Coran of Tethyr.'


	2. Three Jolly Rogues

Disclaimer: Coran, our lovable scoundrel is singing Shakespeare, so don't sue me.

After the girls convienced their newly met friend (known as Coran of Tethyr alias 'this whoring scoundrel', 'this cheating rogue' or 'this troublesome knave') to take his share of the gold - let it be known that he was trying to say "no", swearing that he would sooner join the Flaming Fist than rob two lovely maidens ( which was the part when Imoen blushed, and Finna told him to go to hell). After the elf happily surrendered and took what was rightfully his (three thousands of gold pieces, in that case), after Finna talked Imoen out of starting a house in the same shabby building that served the lich as a home, after said Imoen wanted to drag a heavy, ebony table out of the said home, after both Finna and Coran yelled at her not to (fearing that both the house and the small thief would not survive the process), after Imoen told them they are all buffle - headed and called Coran's suggestion that they do not need a table when they have no home mutton - mongering riffraf, after they all got tired of standing on the streets and headed to Feldepost's Inn to rent the most luxorious rooms ever, after Finna and Imoen had some private talk about Coran, after the swashbuckler made it clear that the elf is Imoen's for the taking, after Finna woke, in the late afternoon...

She decided it was a time for celebration.

***

'Sae', Finna started, with Feldepost's best ale in hand, 'what do ya do fer a livin'?'

They sat at a table for two, adorned with a few roses in a vase. Feldepost insisted on adding two candles, but his propositions were cut short by Finna's deadly gaze.

'Same things you seem to be doing. The only difference is our choice of monsters. I prefer wyverns, you seem to be more of an undead hunter.'

'An udead hunter...' Finna barely swallowed her ale, 'well, yeah, guess yer rite.'

It sounded more effective then 'I don't know what yer talking about, laddie!', so the girl held her peace.

'So, how do you hunt undead?', Coran inquired, a small smile curving his lips, 'You did not seem even properly equipped... with all due respect, my beautiful huntress.'

Finna took another sip of the beer. Ya wanted to be like swashbucklers in the books, aye? Then act like one, damn ya!

'Tis merely a game of wits, me friend', she spoke, 'and I won this time by destroying a phylactery... with your unexpected help, of course.'

'A good thing that we have met, is it not?'

'Aye. Let's drink fer that!'

They drank up their ales, and Finna called for another ones.

'Coran?'

'Yes, my pretty?'

The girl gritted her teeth. Damn, could not all the men act like Reevor? Or Hull, for that matter?

'The name be Finna', she repeated, 'as ya know. And if ya know something, use it. Aye? But bugger that. Me sister. Imoen. What do ya think of her?'

'Ah, she is fair! Were I a bard, I would compare her to a wildflower...'

'Mayhap some bard will, in the future. But good ya like her.'

Coran leaned forward.

'Is there something I should know, Finna?'

'Aye, there is. Yer gettin' tactless.'

The wyvern hunter laughed silently, shaking his head in disbelief.

'Why, aren't you honest and forthright...'

'That I be. Raised by a dwarf, ya know.'

'Ah! So that's why you speak...'

'Aye, aye. But here she be.'

Imoen approached them, in her entire pink glory. Finna chuckled silently as she noticed that the girl's skirt lost quite a few inches of length. The smaller thief did not like using a dagger against monsters, but she was merciless while dealing with cloth.

'Hullo', she said.

Accost, sir Coran, accost, Finna thought to herself.

'So. Everyone ready?', the small thief continiued, her gaze wandering from Finna to Coran.

Both stood up, joining her.

'Aye, and bloody aye. Off we go!', announced Finna, leading her friends to the exit, 'We've five hundred gold pieces, and I don't even want to hear bout ye twa payin. Everything is on me, and if I hear anyone wanting to pay, I'll kick yer teeth in!'

'My dear, I would not worry about the gold', Coran said, 'my skills consist not only of exposing myself to stun spells.'

Imoen and Finna stopped abruptly, exchanging looks.

'Doncha...' the smaller thief started.

'Tell us...'

'You're a...'

'THIEF!', they finished together, laughing hysterically.

For a moment, Coran just stood there, blinking.

'Is that so extraordinary?', he inquired.

'Quite the opposite', Imoen explained, wiping the tears out of her eyes, 'Well... we both are thieves, too. Ya know, its funny... since they told us to travel in a balanced company back in the Keep, tehehehe...'

'Aye', Finna nodded, 'but balanced we be, alrite. I am the fencing and bragging thief. She is the one that looks out for traps and hides in shadows.'

'And I am the one who steals from those who can spare it', Coran concluded, with a courteous bow, 'You, fair Finna, are our swordmistress, you, pretty Imoen, are the dangerous assassin lady, I am but a humble bowman, and three merry rogues we be!'

'Threeeee merrrry rogues we beeeeee...', Imoen sang, following the popular tune a little less off - key than usual.

They left the tavern, followed by Feldepost's worried stare.

***

Once in the Juggler, where the company was merrier, and the furniture cheaper, the three jolly rogues sat around a small table, enjoying their first goblets of wine.

'You two are gonna get soooo drunk', Imoen remarked, 'Beer and wine and whatever comes next... I'm the sober one here, I am.'

Finna chuckled, elbowing Coran.

'Ya should 'ave seen her back in Candlekeep. Her foster - father, an inkeep, gives her a mug of ale fer her birthday, rite? And she gets drunk on it! Meself, I could drown like...'

The elf smiled lightly.

'Proper ladies are not accustomed to such drinks', he said, winking at Imoen.

'Yeah! Ya tell her!', Imoen shouted, 'I'm just more lady - like than ya, Finna.'

'Im, we just killed a lich, not to mention going through a forest and cutting our way through gibberlings... hardly ladylike, I'd say.'

'At least I'm tryin'?!', the smaller thief retorted, giving Finna a hard kick in the shin.

The swashbuckler got the message and remained silent. Her sister could act so strange sometimes...

'Drink up, dear friends', said Coran, 'for wine makes the hours pass faster, and the world look more beautiful. Drink up, and I shall amuse you two in whatever way you shall choose: a ballad, a dance, a show of thieve's skills! Drink up!'

They obeyed, and the elf refilled the three goblets.

Finna, feeling more and more at ease, looked around. The assembled townsfolk, mostly men, seemed happy. She did not notice any bards - much to her dissapointment - but that was nothing they could not fix, if the wine was good. What caught her attention, was a fair - haired man sitting at the corner. He seemed in his middle years, and constantly on guard - even there, in the common room,it looked like he was ready to reach for the spear beside his chair.

'Ya can sing?', Imoen asked.

Finna wanted to ask her sister if she was bloody daft, but then she realised it was not her Im was talking to.

Oy, first signs of sisterly envy, she thought. Bugger that.

'I am an elf', Coran said.

As if it was somethin' tae brag about.

'Well, sing us a song, please?', the smaller thief asked.

The bowman nodded, his eyes aiming for Imoen's.

'Would you like a lovesong, or a song of the good life?'

'A lovesong...', Imoen sighed.

Sold, thought Finna.

'And a song of the good life for Finna', Imoen added, when she realized her sister could feel somewhat alienated, 'she likes this kind of stuff.'

'So be it', Coran agreed, chuckling inwardly.

'Wine! Bring us more wine!', Finna called, and a servant girl appeared with another bottle.

'I don't think it is going to be that bad', the elf remarked, and started:

Oh Mistress mine, where are you roaming,

Oh, can't you see, your true love's comming,

That can sing both high and low...

Yeah, he can sing, alrite. Hie and low, and whatever ya wish. Grand. But why do I feel so bloody useless 'ere?

Finna caught the serving girl by her sleeve.

'This laddie', she whispered, 'the warrior over there. Who is he?'

'Bjornin', the girl replied, 'a paladin of Torm. He got wounded...'

Trip no further, preety sweetling,

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know...

The swashbuckler sighed. A wounded man, and a paladin to boot. Could it possibly get worse?

'Well, thank ya, I guess', she muttered and gave a golden coin to the girl.

Neither of her companions seemed to notice this silent dialogue.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter,

Present mirth hath present laughter,

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lays no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Coran finished his song, leaving a very melancholic Imoen and a very awkward Finna.

'And now. The good life song, yes?'

'I'll pass', Finna said, intending to get as drunk as possible. Maybe then she would not notice the fact that nobody seemed to want her here...

'If it is not a song you want, than a game of skill!', the bowman exclaimed, obviously trying to save the day - and the swashbuckler's mood, 'Challenge me to do whatever you wish, and I shall prove that I am the best thief from Tethyr to Amn!'

Finna cheered up. This could be fun, after all... wait! Did he just call himself *the best* thief?!

'Ya may be the best bowman from Tethyr to bloody Anauroch, but not the best thief when I'm around!'

Imoen woke up from her day - dream as well.

'Ya?! Best thief?! I am better! I'm sure I'm better than ya, sis!'

'And this fella here thinks he is the best', Finna concluded, pointing Coran, 'Ye know what that means?'

Imoen's eyes started to glow.

'WAR!'

The three jolly rogues eyed each other, smiles curving their lips, sparkles of joy dancing in their eyes.

'As your elder, my beautiful and stealthy ladies', Coran whispered, 'I feel obliged to create our set of rules for the contest. Each of us will give one task to his or her oponent. The game, my friends, will be a most challenging test of skill, wits, and courage. Each of us will give one task to his opponent. The giver of the task can choose any item, on any person. The one challenged has to bring it to us... no time limits.'

Both girls nodded. Coran noticed they did not look like each other. They were both thieves, yes, both redheads, both young... yet, Imoen's hair had a more pinkish tint to them, and the smaller thief herself seemed more innocent and playful, while Finna was all bravado and expierience... or so she will be, he corrected himself, in a few years. No. They were not similar to one another. Yet, in this very moment, when both were smiling exactly the same way, when the fire was burning in both sets of eyes: the gray ones and the green ones, he would never fail to recognize that their owners were kin.

'Alrite. Who's starting?', asked Finna.

'The one who asked', Imoen chuckled.

'Grand. What should I bring ya?'

Imoen looked around the room. Merchants and their purses were too easy and boring, the inkeep was far too drunk to notice the loss of anything, including his own trousers... but, hey... who is that man sitting in the corner?

The small thief smiled and leaned towards Finna, whispering:

'Ya see the warrior over there?'

'Aye.'

'I want his spear.'

The swashbuckler smiled wickedly. Coran choaked on his liquor.

'Why, Imoen...', he spoke, 'if you want such a thing, you need only ask!'

'Ya know, Im', Finna began, 'I read some things.... are ya sure it's not a symbol of some kind?'

Imoen tilted her head left, not quite knowing what the hell were they on about.

'Of what kind?'

'Dunno how Gorion would call it, but Reevor...'

'I really think you should stop right there, Finna', the elf remarked.

He was right. The smaller thieve's face turned pink, matching the colour of her hair.

'Whatever', she said, 'just bring it to me or be called Finna, the lousy thief of Candlekeep.'

'Not when you are around, Im', the swashbuckler smiled.

She had a plan...


End file.
